The Bard

by Greyson, Maeve

  “And ye didna feel ye could that for me?” he asked.

  “A chief must never be oblivious to anything,” she said with an unsettling look. “And I must share my visions when I am bid to do so. Let us leave it at that.” She turned away and started up the steps just as Sorcha came out the door. “Mint will help ye, too, lass. Breathe it in good and deep. Have ye some in yer pocket?”

  “Aye.” Sorcha opened her hand, revealing the crushed green leaves and sending their clean, sharp scent into the air.

  “Good lass.” Aderyn patted her shoulder and entered the keep, allowing the heavy double doors to close behind her.

  Sutherland rushed up the steps, concerned with Sorcha’s pallor. “Oh, my dear one. From now on, if someone else is ill, ye need to stay away.” He took her arm and led her to a shaded bench set away from all the chaos of the day’s preparations. “Shall I run and get ye some water?”

  She held the crushed mint to her nose and breathed in deeply. “Nay. I will be fine in a bit. The mint and the fresh air are helping.” A perturbed look added color back to her cheeks. “What kept ye? Was she not in her dwelling?”

  “She bade me sit so she could tell me she was wrong about our bairns.” He would share the good prophecies today. That would help get her over her sickliness. He hadn’t decided if he would ever tell her about her father. In some cases, ignorance was bliss and one of the greatest gifts he could ever give her.

  “Aderyn is never wrong.” Rubbing the mint between her hands, she pulled in another deep breath.

  “Ask her yerself when next ye see her.” He knew Aderyn would never tell Sorcha about her father. The old woman had placed that curse upon him.

  “Fine. So what news did she share this time? Have the ranks of our brood grown even more?” She tossed aside the spent herbs and brushed her hands together.

  “Seven sons. One daughter.” He grinned, then laced his fingers with hers and squeezed. “The wee lass will be born last as the answer to her mother’s prayers.” He winked. “Aderyn says she’ll be spoiled rotten by everyone in the clan, but most especially by her brothers.”

  “And her father, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  She hugged closer and rested her head on his shoulder. “Eight wee ones. So many blessings.”

  “And as great a blessing as they will be, they’re not the greatest blessing of all.” He kissed the top of her head and sent up a prayer of thanks that one as undeserving as himself should be granted such happiness.

  Sorcha lifted her head and gave him a perplexed look. “What is this greatest blessing ye speak of?”

  “Aderyn’s words were that the two of us are blessed beyond measure. She saw us walk through the years together to a great age. And when we leave this world within hours of one another, we are surrounded not only by our children but also by our children’s grown children and beyond.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “It is a wondrous gift to have been granted such a life. A pair of such rightly matched hearts such as ours couldna hope for more.”

  “Oh my.” Tears overflowed and streamed down Sorcha’s cheeks. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “We never have to fear moving on alone. We will never be one without the other. Not ever.”

  “Not ever, my love,” he promised. “Not ever.”

  Epilogue

  A year later…

  Castle Greyloch

  “Watch him now. Watch his intensity. Barely three months old and already hunting his first prey.” Sutherland swelled with pride. It didn’t matter that the object of his infant son’s interest was a trio of orange and black butterflies fluttering around a cluster of nearby flowers. He adjusted his little one’s position in the crook of his arm, supporting him higher to follow their flight. “There ye are, my son. Now, ye can see better. Soon ye’ll be chasing after them.”

  Magnus gave an impressed nod. “I do believe wee Greyson is as alert as Merlin. He shall be a fine hunter someday.” Magnus comparing the child to the falcon was high praise indeed, and Sutherland took it as such.

  “It is time for Greyson’s meal and a nap,” Sorcha said as she reclaimed her son and consoled Sutherland with a quick kiss. She inclined her head toward Magnus. “Dinna forget to give him his missive. It’s somewhere in the middle of that mountain of papers on yer desk.” As she headed toward the entry to the chief’s solar, she called back over her shoulder. “As tattered and worn as the folds of that parchment look to be, it’ll be a miracle if he can make out what it might have said inside.”

  “What missive?” Magnus watched her go, then gave Sutherland a befuddled look. “A parchment?” he repeated. “Addressed to me?”

  Sutherland rose and motioned for Magnus to follow. “It’s in the library. Alexander sent it here. Said it arrived at Tor Ruadh back in the winter, right after Hogmanay. When ye didna come down from the north for the winter, he thought it might catch up with ye here since he knew ye had promised to come by and see the bairn once the weather fully warmed. The outside of the packet bears yer name. I take it that this is the first ye’ve been among the living in a while? I thought ye always wintered at Tor Ruadh?”

  “The cold months were mild this year, even mild enough for Merlin, so I stayed in the northern Highlands. Away from any settlements—mostly.” He grinned as he fell in step with Sutherland. “And I’ll have ye know I have been among the living. Red deer. Squirrels. Pine martens. All manner of grouse. They tend to offer a great deal less conflict and chaos than people do.” Magnus offered his forearm to the falcon perched on his shoulder, then released the bird into the sky. “Into the clouds with ye, my friend. I know ye dinna wish to be inside on such a fine day.” With a happy cry, the winged hunter took flight.

  “We thought about sending Greyloch to find ye when ye didna show at the first greening of spring.” Sutherland riffled through the clutter on the desk. “God’s beard, what a mess.” With his father-in-law in Edinburgh for the past month, supervising the clan’s books and updating records had fallen to Sutherland, and he hated it with a passion. “The old fox doesna hesitate to leave us in charge of the keep. He just stops in every so often to play with the wee ones.”

  “I havena seen Jenny and Lachlan’s son yet.” Magnus joined Sutherland at the desk, sorting through thin packets, thick bundles, and long narrow envelopes. “With their son and yer’s just a few weeks apart, those lads will be more like brothers than cousins.”

  “That they will,” Sutherland said as he scooped up an armload of papers and dumped it on the couch in the corner. “I dinna ken how anyone keeps up with all this foolishness. How’s a chief supposed to protect his clan when he’s drowning in shite like this?”

  “Ye best learn how to handle this mess if ye mean to be chieftain someday.” Magnus raked another pile off into a basket, glancing at the notations on the packets as he sorted. “Ye wish Greyson to have a clan to inherit, do ye not?”

  “Ye sound like Sorcha.” Sutherland spotted the worn, water-stained envelope with the faded ink and snatched it up before Magnus swept it into the basket. “Here!” He held it out to his friend and pointed at the window. “Sunshine might help with the reading of it. Especially if it’s as faded on the inside as it is on the outside.”

  Now that Magnus had finally shown up, Sutherland hated giving him the missive, knowing it risked sending him on his way again before they had fully enjoyed their visit. He hoped it wasn’t anything dire, but didn’t know how it could be. The MacCoinnichs were the only family Magnus had left, and all of them were fine.

  Magnus flipped over the envelope and froze, with an unblinking stare locked on the chipped and dented wax seal. His jaw flexed as he turned it over and studied the handwriting again. After a deep breath, he slid a finger under the flap, broke the wax, and opened the yellowed parchment. His lips moved as he read, then he slowly lowered himself into a nearby chair.

  “What is it?” Sutherland wished he would say something. The man had gone pale. His hands shook
until the paper crackled. “Magnus?”

  “She is dead,” he whispered without looking up from the missive. He let it fall to the floor and scrubbed his face as though trying to wake from a bad dream.

  “Who is dead?” Sutherland refrained from snatching up the letter and reading it himself. Magnus would tell him in his own good time.

  “Bree.” Magnus turned and stared out the window. “Bree Maxwell.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “A bonnie lass as sweet as heather after a gentle rain.” With the toe of his boot, he nudged the tattered parchment toward Sutherland, then raised his head and locked eyes with him. “My beloved Bree died while bringing my son into this world.”

  “Ye have a woman? A son?” Sutherland tried to focus on the good. Bringing forth bairns had sent many a woman to her grave. Sutherland had decided long ago that a wartime battlefield was safer than attempting to bring forth life. “Fetch the babe. Bring him here. Our sons can grow together.” He’d do anything to help his friend. “Where is he now? Does the letter say?”

  Magnus scooped it up and squinted at the faded script. “Whoever wrote this signed it for Bree. She sent this from her deathbed.”

  “God rest her soul.” Sutherland crossed himself, then flinched. Magnus and God weren’t exactly on speaking terms, and this revelation wouldn’t change that. “I can come with ye if ye like. We can bring along a wet nurse to help with the babe. I know Sorcha would help ye choose a fine one.”

  “What?” Sutherland grabbed hold of his shoulder. What else could be worse? The woman who had borne him a son had died and left the child alone in the world. He prayed the bairn hadn’t died, too.

  Magnus looked up and shoved the letter back at Sutherland. “Look at the year. This letter is five years old.”

  Read on for an excerpt from The Ghost – Highland Heroes Book 6

  Chapter One

  Northeastern Scotland

  July 1705

  “Ye ken I dinna like this any more than ye do. I know I said it before, but it bears sayin’ again. When Mama says go, I must go. And maybe she’s right. She usually is. Besides, I didna hear ye arguing with her nor telling her nay.”

  Magnus de Gray cut a dark look over at the entirely too talkative fifteen-year-old he had been saddled with ever since leaving Tor Ruadh. For the past four days, he had kept his responses to the youngling’s endless chatter as civil as possible—curt but polite. Four long days of companionship it had been. Time that should’ve been peaceful. A pleasant summer ride through the Highlands. But by the furies in every level of Hades, the hours had been anything but quiet. It ended today. He had tolerated all he could stand. “Shut it, aye?”

  Evander Cameron, the eldest of his brother-in-arms’ adopted sons, shrugged away the command, then urged his horse into the lead. The lad didn’t give a rat’s furry arse about Magnus’s sour mood nor the blatant insult his mother, Gretna, had dealt to them both. She had shamed them in front of the entire keep, swearing they both needed a lesson in the proper treatment of women, and perhaps the chore of fetching Magnus’s lately discovered illegitimate son might impress upon them how actions always had consequences. How dare she say such a thing in front of everyone.

  His guilt regarding this situation weighed heavier than his massive warhorse. Remorse about leaving the Lady Bree Maxwell alone and pregnant pricked his conscience just as greatly as if he had knowingly deserted her, which he hadn’t. Or at least, he hadn’t meant to leave her in such a state.

  Hell’s fire, how had she gotten with child so easily? It had been but a single encounter. He had known at the time it was foolhardy, but the lovely lass had made it impossible to refuse. Her father’s edict for her to marry a man renowned for his cruelty had forced her to seek release from the betrothal by the most defiant way she knew. If she couldn’t marry for love, she would at least lose her virginity in friendship. She’d hoped it would free her from the despicable union, even if it meant imprisonment in a nunnery. She had been so desperate—and oh-so enticing. When he had told her he didn’t love her, she’d laughed! Said it didn’t matter. Now, even without that blasted emotion, look where he’d ended up.

  “What was their clan’s name again?” Evander called back. “We shouldha seen their keep by now because there’s a village up there a way. See the white of the buildings against the blue of the sea beyond? Is that not Inbhir Theòrsa? Ye said Inbhir Theòrsa was the last village before we reached the water’s edge. Ye said if we made it there afore we found the keep, we’d somehow missed and gone too far.”

  “I am well aware of what I said,” Magnus snapped. As much as he hated to admit it, the boy was right. They should’ve reached the keep by now. How the hell had they not?

  Oblivious to his elder’s sharp tone, Evander tilted his head and squinted up at the brilliance of the sunny sky. “Hear those birds a keenin’? Is that what terns sound like?”

  “Aye. Those are terns.” Magnus frowned as he turned his mount and scanned the landscape behind them. An eerie uneasiness stirred deep in his bones. “Their clan is Nithdane,” he added, more to keep the boy from repeating his question, and hopefully, delay him in coming up with any new ones. He needed silence to study the area. Something was sorely amiss.

  “Ye did say the keep was well before the village, aye? Said they were separated by a good distance but still within view?”

  Ignoring Evander, Magnus urged his mount off the dirt path and backtracked. In the distance loomed an overgrown mound of charred stones he didn’t remember from before. He headed for it at a dead gallop, dread churning in his gut. Once he reached the ruin, he pulled up short. What had once been tall, imposing walls were now crumbling piles of rubble bleached white as old bones. The dark greening of moss covered the debris closest to the ground. Bits of charred wood and twisted remnants of rusting metal peeped out from clumps of sedge and thickets of nettle. Nithdane Keep was no more.

  “Is this…or was this it?” Evander asked, reining in beside him.

  The lad dismounted and poked around the tumbled down shell of what had once been a decent-sized keep. Not a massive fortress, but good enough to make a small clan like Nithdane proud. When the lad came upon a rotting post with a skull at its base, he backed away, crossing himself with every step. “What do ye reckon happened to them all?”

  “Back to yer horse.” Magnus refused to dismount and disturb Nithdane Keep’s ghosts. He turned his beast toward the settlement, eyeing the peaceful stretch of white buildings rimming the bay and the fishing boats bobbing alongside the docks. “Hie wi’ ye now,” he said. “I’m sure someone from the village can tell us what happened.” He snorted out a bitter huff as he waited for Evander. The place reeked of betrayal.

  More likely than not, it wouldn’t be difficult to discover what the ruins refused to share. People loved retelling tales of carnage, suffering, and death. That was but one of the many reasons Magnus preferred a solitary life with no one other than his falcon, Merlin, for company. Regrettably, he’d left the bird back at Tor Ruadh in the care of Evander’s brothers since he had no idea what this trip might entail.

  For the first time since leaving their keep, the boy did as he was asked without commenting and rode along in blessed silence. For that, Magnus was grateful. At least for a while. After tolerating Evander’s constant chattering for days, the heavy blanket of quiet between them now was not only suffocating but filled Magnus with guilt for snarling at the lad. This hellish trip wasn’t the youngling’s fault. He clenched his teeth so hard, ’twas a wonder they didn’t shatter. By the gods, he would do better by this inquisitive pup. The last thing he needed in this life was something else to regret.

  When they rode into Inbhir Theòrsa, the first thing Magnus noticed was that the folk of the small fishing hamlet seemed leery—almost fearful. He didn’t remember them behaving this way before. The men standing in front of the buildings turned aside to avoid his gaze. Most either sought shelter inside or hurried down toward the docks. Fisherwomen sewing nets and w
eaving baskets dropped their work, crossed themselves, then rushed into their dwellings and shuttered the doors and windows.

  “What did ye do the last time ye were here?” Evander asked in a hushed tone. “These folk act like ye’re death’s own angel come to take their souls.” He bobbed his head from side to side when Magnus didn’t answer. “’Course, with that white hair o’ yers. And them black clothes. Black horse, too. I canna say as I blame them.” Winking one eye shut, he studied Magnus, then nodded. “Aye, I can see it. All ye need is horns and a set of black wings.”

  “Ye’re nay helping.”

  “Sorry.”

  “The public house used to be down that way and to the right. We’ll try there.” Magnus urged his horse to a faster clip. Not only were the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, but the scar between his shoulder blades was tingling. A sure sign they needed to be shed of this place as quick as they found the information they sought. The village held a darkness he didn’t like.

  “Stay with the horses,” Magnus ordered. The shutters for the windows flanking the pub’s bright red door thumped shut. That hadn’t happened the last time he was here unless a storm was about to hit. A louder thud banged against the inside of the door, the sound of the bar being dropped across the threshold.

  “Pub’s closed!” shouted a voice from inside.

  “In the middle of the day?” Evander taunted. “Are ye that afeared of the mighty Magnus de Gray?”

  Magnus shot the boy a threatening look that surprisingly shut his mouth. He made a note to remember that for future reference. Stepping closer to the door, he caught sight of a watery eye peering at him through a knothole. “Tell me what I seek, and the boy and I will leave.”